


Taproot

by tsumego



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, M/M, Nymphs & Dryads, Young Guns Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 13:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13436154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsumego/pseuds/tsumego
Summary: Mike Green, bro-dryad extraordinaire.





	Taproot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunshinexbomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinexbomb/gifts).



> For sunshinexbomb - thanks for setting up this exchange! This fic honestly came from seeing Mike "Greenie" Green with an entire fridge of green foods as part of the Caps Cribs video and my feverish imaginings of why that could possibly be a choice he made. And yet zero (0) fridges appear in this fic. 
> 
> My infinite gratitude to HotCrosBuns, queen amongst betas, without whom this fic would be a series of distressed keysmashes and tears. Shoutout to MapleMermaid for being a rockstar and watching old caps videos for me as part of my Mike Green Info Dive.

Nicke hadn’t been looking for a new best friend when he slipped away from the first day of training camp with the Washington Capitals, but apparently tripping over the legs of someone basking in the sunlight in an interior courtyard is how these North Americans make friends.

“Nicky! We’re going for food - burgers. You’re coming right, of course you’re coming!” 

Or maybe that’s just Mike Green.

He had rather expected to be beset by one over-exuberant friendly dude. He’d braced for it - maybe even looked forward to hiding from the spot light in his shadow a bit. He hadn’t prepared for three.

Mike didn’t wait for a reply. He hasn’t yet, all four days that they’d known each other. A friendly grin and more enthusiasm than a Labrador puppy meant that Mike was an easy person to like and he knew it.

It is an easy smile to return, too. Even for Nicke, here, away from the cameras at least.

With Mike’s bare forearm hooked around his neck and Alex crowded close to poke him every time his attention seemed to drift from the narration of his latest gaming success, Nicke thinks perhaps that’s why it has been so easy to find his place here.

He had thought through possible futures in his bed, the first night before training camp started. He would need to be sure to bond with the team, try to talk to people. About himself even, maybe. Not just stay silent and only relax in the comfort of the Nylander home and play ping-pong with the oldest boys. Kids are easy because you don’t have to make friends with them, you just have to be around and smile, and they talk and talk, and drag you about by the hand and love you for it.

Looking across the table, Nicke watches Semin and Alex competing to see who can eat the most fries while Mike tries to dare them into dipping them in coca-cola, like a restaurant booth of giant half-grown kids. None of them needed anything from him. They were just happy to exist around him. And Nicke was happy to enjoy watching their antics without feeling excluded. He was also happy to gently but stealthily nudge a nearby ketchup cup into position so that when Mike’s elbow came down from his latest gesticulation it landed squarely in the center of the cup.

\-----

Mike keeps seeking him out to go do something, anything in what free time they have after practice. Left to his own devices, Nicke would just stay home, but he’s happy to allow himself to be dragged out and around DC. But that doesn’t mean Nicke is going to just follow along complacently. The music store with the guitars had been fun, the club was not, and while he had enjoyed the botanical gardens, it hadn’t been anything he’d expected from a guy like Mike. But a skate park?

“You can go on your own,” Nicke says flatly, trying to convey his disapproval of the idea. He has never once in his life wanted to get on a skateboard, and he isn’t about to spend his time lurking awkwardly in the background while Mike tries to break his neck.

Mike rolls his head in a completely over-exaggerated expression of mock exasperation. “Okay, wise guy, if you’re going to just shoot my ideas down, you can pick what we do.” 

Nicke pauses in packing up his bag and takes a moment before he decides to be honest. “I’d really like to go to a museum. I was really looking forward to seeing them last year.”

“What, like the Smithsonian Museum of Unnatural History? The new exhibit on the evolution of dragons isn’t open yet…” Mike doesn’t sound like he hates the idea or has suddenly decided that Nicke is too boring to hang out with. Mostly he sounds curious, eager to know more but willing to be patient and wait for Nicke to speak at his own pace without rushing or talking over him.

“I was thinking something like the International Spy Museum - it’s right across the street.”

“The what? They have a museum for spies!? Why didn’t I know about this? We totally have to check that out!” Mike sounds like he’s about to walk straight out the door, even though he still hasn’t finished pulling his shirt on, too busy talking with one of his arms still trapped against his side.

Hours later, Nicke watches Mike recklessly click his new spy pen from the museum gift store, and ramble on about ways to turn cryptography into pranks as they make their way out back onto the street, and feels helplessly glad that he has Mike with him on the team.

\-----

Some people can sense a storm coming, feel the electricity on their skin and the ache in their bones. Nicke can’t, but he imagines that his knack for sensing the supernatural might be similar - nothing specific. Obviously Mike was magic, and Poti and Fehrsie as well, a bit. Alex probably wasn’t - that was just his energetic personality and tendency to scuff his socked feet on carpets enough to build up a charge to zap the unwary on their nose or ears, no matter how much he tried to claim to be Zeus, god of hockey and also lightning.

Walking into a trainer’s room the day before their first pre-season away game and seeing a small tree in a pot, Nicke had the same socks-on-carpet sensation, raising the hairs on the back of his neck despite the damp of sweat curling them cold and ticklish on his nape.

“Nicky!” Alex gestured him over to where a group of the younger guys were clustered around it. The trepidation Nicke felt wasn’t lessened as he got closer and saw the glint in Alex’s eyes. “Nicky, shaving cream or stick tape for tree?”

Oh, please no.

 _Maybe we don’t prank the mysterious small magic tree and just leave it alone and pretend we never saw it_ was a bit complicated, even for his magically-enhanced English skills, and any direct “no do not do it” would probably act as a double-dog dare to a bunch of amped up and anxious guys with nothing better to spend their energy on yet.

“For you? Shaving cream.” Nicke smiles, lips pulled tight together and curling the corner up just enough to make it a joke, as he tries to edge his way closest to the tree, still in its own bubble of space on one of of the padded exam tables.

Alex laughs and jostles Semin who shoves back and it devolves into a mess until someone bumps into Nicke and his finger. brushes. the. tree.

Everything halts, muffled and quiet and distant from his body, thoughts sluggish and slow like sap in the winter, a crispness of air rushing through his fingers and around his arms like through needles and branches, freezing him in place. He isn’t scared - or anything else, emotions and thought of movement beyond him, sense of self washed away in the overwhelming presence of sensation. 

“Oh, fuuuuuuuuck…..” Nicke can hear Mike drawing out the curse, filling his ears and almost drowning out this wind. He doesn’t know when Mike showed up or who is or isn’t in the room any more but he can see Mike, the only thing he can focus on so he does, like watching the horizon to keep your balance.

Nicke’s eyes get caught on the tattoos which now cover the back of Mike’s hands, wrap around his forearms and crawl their way up and over the tank top he’s wearing in sprouting tendrils, the light green of new growth that twines around his neck until they curl up in the hollow of his collarbone. The leaves move in the wind, gently.

Mike’s hands wrap around his hands and abruptly he can feel his toes again. Nicke thinks he missed them, he needs those to play hockey. “Nicky, man, what the hell happened? Why’d you touch my tree? Thought you’d be smarter than that.”

Nicke gathers his thoughts, tries to find his tongue and teeth and coordinate them into something like language, “Didn’t...mean to. They wanted to prank it.”

Mike’s face hardens briefly before his shoulders drop and he relaxes, laughing it off, “I honestly don’t know what else I expected. Should have known better than to ditch my locus-tree somewhere these dumbasses could find it. Thanks for having my back and more of a brain than the rest of them.”

Mike’s hands drop and abruptly Nicke becomes fully present in his body once more, aware now that they’ve walked away from the tree and that the room is empty except for Michael, hovering near the door like a worried parent, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“I gotta get this little guy all packaged up for our trip - I’ll catch you later?”

Nicke nods and lets himself be drawn away by Michael.

\-----

“No, you can’t touch a dryad’s tree. You just can’t because it won’t _let_ you. That’s what happened to you back in the trainer’s room. You got too close and it just made you think you’re a tree. Pretty hard to do anything bad if you just want to chill in the sun and maybe put down roots.” 

Nicke isn’t sure what kind of talk he was expecting, but an overly-earnest lecture at a bar after the game is definitely not it. Mike’s eyes are bright with alcohol as he illustrates his point by drawing a picture of a happy sun and a tiny pine tree on a napkin with a Sharpie.

Nicke himself is pretty drunk, he knows he must be because right now that drawing is the cutest thing ever and he’s hoping he can steal the napkin so he can keep the picture. It’s just so happy. Like Mike.

“So yeah, sorry for leaving Gary around. Everyone on the Bears is used to him by now and just leaves him alone. Got into some bad habits.”

“You name it _Gary_!?” Nicke couldn’t hold in his incredulous question. Who. who even names magical trees Gary. Nicke would believe if anyone named trees, it would be dryads naming one of their locus-trees. But he would have thought it would be more...dignified. Symbolic.

“Gary seemed like a friendly name! And I’m not going to call him “it” or “the tree” all the time - that’s just rude!” Mike is so indignant, face scrunching up in the most offended expression, like an outraged cockatoo, his fauxhawk ruffled and standing in disarray.

Nicke is relaxed and amused and safe and lets himself reach out and delicately pet the ruffled dark hair down with his fingertips, mockingly cooing, “So polite, even your hair is offended at the thought.”

Mike ducks away and grins at him, “You’re an _asshole_ Backy, you know that?”

Nicke settles back into his seat and folds his hands primly, giving his best innocent smile and knowing that his eyes and pink cheeks were definitely giving him away, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Noo, of course you don’t. Noble Nicklas Backstrom, protector of Gary and, and- hey!” Mike sits up abruptly, startling Nicke, “I have a great idea! We should totally room together. I don’t trust someone not to like, dump a bottle of beer or gatorade on Gary and like, I just like hanging out with you man, you’re a super chill guy and all sneaky-funny. Like a prank ninja.”

“I already have a roommate? You already have one too - Coach’s orders.”

“Pffftttt, we can like. Switch. We should totally switch, we could ask or we could be so annoying that they beg to let us room together.” Mike is clearly warming up to the idea, jostling Nicke’s arm in excitement. He hadn’t ever thought of asking for a change as a possibility, had just accepted the mandate as handed down. The thought that things could change is exciting, a little bit forbidden. “You want to switch too, don’t want to room with boring Brads right?”

Nicke isn’t going to call any of his teammates boring out _loud_ , but Mike certainly can’t snore worse than Bradley and he likes being around Mike. He’d like to be around Mike all of the time. In the long unknown terror of the upcoming season, his first in a strange country, on this team of half-strangers, it would be nice to have one thing he could look forward to that he couldn’t fail. A space where he didn’t have to do his best and live up to his potential and be a responsible teammate. Mike seemed to delight in getting Nicke to be a little irresponsible even. He could relax with Mike. He feels himself nodding even before he realizes he’s made a decision and Mike whoops and punches his shoulder in excitement.

“We’re gonna make this happen, dude. Let’s get some more shots to celebrate!”

\-----

“Rise and shine ducklings, I’m not going to judge your snuggletime, but it’s time to get up!”

Nicke wakes up to a faceful of paper napkin, crumpled in his own fist and barely shading his eyes from the unforgiving light of Ottawa’s morning sunshine, streaming in through the hotel windows where Bradley has just thrown open the curtains.

Nicke’s flail of distress is hampered by the arm of someone wrapped around his chest. His brain feels like angry mush that might be leaking out through his eyes, watering in the light.

“Nrrgh...Brads, what? BUS!” Mike’s voice is much too loud in his ear, even as it’s muffled down into the pillows, and then his hand is lifting up off of Nicke as Mike rolls over and off of their shared hotel bed with a thump. Nicke half-rolls himself over to the edge just in time to see Mike execute a pretty impressive push-up for someone five seconds into a hungover wake-up call, and accelerate out the door in his socked feet, abandoning Nicke to the mercy of his roommate’s flat eyebrows of superior judginess. Propping himself up into something like a sitting position, and feeling small bits of twigs fall out of his disaster of a bedhead, Nicke resolved to figure out how to replicate the look. Sometime when his heart wasn’t trying to crawl down into his stomach.

“You know, Nicky, I didn’t know my snores sounded like a dying whale, but I overheard a very interesting conversation last night including a discussion of rooming arrangements,” Bradley began pleasantly from where he had leaned against the hotel dresser on the wall. Nicke was going to have to change his name to Kristoffer and flee the country. _Nicke_ thought Bradley’s snores sounded like a dying whale calf and vaguely recalled confessing this to Mike in his quietest drunken whisper last night. In this very hotel room. He really wishes he had a better memory of what they’d been talking about. Fortunately, Bradley isn’t waiting for his input, “You know Coach asked Stecks and I to look after you both - show you the ropes, help keep you steady this first year. You guys are going to want to do this right, and the last thing you want to do is fuck it up by missing a bus or something.” 

Nicke nods and tries to look extremely serious and like he’s a responsible adult who can totally look after themselves and not one trying to keep his stomach under control, “Yes of course. We don’t want to mess up, but we’re not total rookies. I played professionally back in Sweden, and Mike’s played games last year in the NHL. I know this is still a big change, but between us I think we can work things out on our own.”

Bradley hrmms and looks conflicted and as he opens his mouth to probably say no, Nicke feels something well up in him. “We’ll pay you,” he blurts out.

It pulls Bradley up short. His Eyebrows of Judgement pull together as he considers it. “How much.”

Nicke picks a number wildly, hoping he has a handle on American money. “$500. Each.”

Bradley looks shocked and laughs. “Five hundred dollars? Okay kid, if it’s that important to you, you guys can look after yourselves.”

Nicke watches Bradley turn and head into their shared bathroom to start getting ready with a smug sense of getting exactly what he wanted, even if he couldn’t say why rooming with Mike was suddenly so important to him when he’d barely even thought about it. 

\-----

Nicke walks into their shared hotel room on the first night on the road, and his pleased glow goes right out the window. He has to resist the urge to turn around and walk right back out and demand that they switch back, right now. He’d pay whatever it takes.

Because Mike is lying diagonally across the near bed, bare feet propped on the pillows and tattoos crawling across his abdomen and vines peaking out around every edge of his shirt. His hair is ruffled and soft, and there are actual flowers growing out of it, small and white and Nicke can smell their sweet scent from the doorway, like a perfect summer’s day. If this absolute bullshit wasn’t enough, he can hear Mike on the phone with his cat-sitter, telling her to move the phone closer as he baby-talks to Banana (who names their cat _Banana_ ) about their flight and being good and not chasing the birds. 

Nicke’s only overriding thought is “Oh no, he’s cute.” Hot he could survive. Hot is. There are many hot men in hockey and jerking off was invented for a reason. Cute is a whole universe of problems and Nicke has signed himself up for more-or-less living with it for the next six months. Cute is the kind of thing that makes Nicke lose his mind and pay $500 to room with a dude, which in retrospect probably should have been a warning sign.

Fortunately, Nicke is a problem solver. He lets himself have the brief moment of panic and dismay, and then settles in to think. There’s really only two solutions here: either Nicke is going to lose his mind and get himself traded to the Thrashers or he’s just going to have to romance the shit out of Mike Green, resident cat-loving bro-dryad. 

And Nicke really was looking forward to checking out the rest of the museums on the Mall.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Gary in this verse is neither a cat nor a guard teddy bear, but a 300 year old lodgepole pine bonsai. Neither Nicky nor Mike properly appreciate his majesty, but he is well loved and well cared for.
> 
> \- Mike uses a very particular brand and make of wooden sticks that are ethically sourced. Eventually the brand goes out of business, and much like a very similar universe, fans donate his old sticks back to him. 
> 
> \- Mike Green really does have a cat named Banana. 
> 
> I did so much research on forests of Calgary and Sweden and used none of it. Hope you enjoyed reading!


End file.
